“Do it. Please. I need to know what is happening. I feel certain Bone is mixed up in this. Innocence too.”
Walking Stick allowed himself to be pleased. The army had fought well and had so far defeated a superior force. The unnatural winter had been broken. The time had come to evaluate their position, choose to retreat or hold.
Then messengers came reporting disaster. Walking Stick left his commanders in charge of chaining of prisoners and securing of the battleground. He turned to the former agitator, Everart, who had become a valued aide. “You will accompany me.” He grabbed Everart and focused his chi, leaping through the field.
“Eh—ah!” said Everart.
They reached the Giant’s Tongue, where Joy should have been.
But she was not there. Instead they found calamity: the queen of Soderland bound in ropes, and a troll chasing the princess of Sølvlyss. “Keep Corinna here,” he told the warriors, and leapt to face the troll.
He jumped onto the creature’s back and began pummeling it in the places where paralytic points lay upon a human. He did not expect it to work, but the attack might yield information.
Surprisingly, the troll slowed. Either this was no normal troll, or he’d been misinformed about troll nature. Either way, the entity fell over.
“Truss it with heavy chains,” he told the nearest warriors. He looked to Alfhild. “You. What is happening?”
“Joy Snøsdatter went mad! She said she was in league with the trolls. Corinna and I tried to stop her.”
“Someone bind her too.” He gestured to the men holding Corinna. They brought her closer. “What has occurred?”
“What you should have realized would occur,” Corinna said, back straight. “When Joy succeeded in purging winter from the Chain, I tried to purge her from my lands. I will not accept an alien leader.”
Everart said, “Alfhild told it differently. She said Joy turned against you.”
Alfhild fought and kicked as she was chained.
Corinna scoffed. “Alfhild is a little fool, too frightened to be honest. I say it to all of you—we are in danger of being overwhelmed by Easterners. Being absorbed by Qiangguo is little better than being conquered by the Karvaks. Ask yourselves, why do we need an Eastern girl to save us? How long until she rules us?”
Walking Stick sighed. “You are deluded. Qiangguo will not conquer you. You are simply too far away to be considered important.”
Corinna shook her head. “The world is changing. Air power makes everything closer. One day you will understand. So what will you do with us, sir?”
“Put them with the Karvak prisoners,” Walking Stick commanded. “Let Corinna be reminded what Joy was saving her from.”
As Corinna and Alfhild were led off, Everart said, “Strange. In some ways she was the best of the royals, the most compassionate toward ordinary folk.”
“It is a human failing everywhere that sometimes we can be profoundly loving toward those akin to us and murderous to those who . . . look!”
“Swan’s blood!”
Beneath darkened skies, a horde of trolls burst over the cliffs.
As Steelfox bent over her sister, bandaging Jewelwolf’s ravaged hands, the voice of her father came to her, as he’d seemed to speak from the ship Naglfar.
You may become a bataar yet, daughter, a hero. But you must first prove yourself able to act in a time of crisis. You must be ready to slay your kin. For you are right that Jewelwolf has strayed from my edicts. You must kill her, as I once did the half-brother who stood between me and leadership of my clan.
“Who . . .” Jewelwolf moaned. “Who is there?”
The old khan’s voice still echoed in Steelfox’s mind. I misjudged you. I know you can handle yourself in battle, and you have kept honorable ways. Now end the disease that afflicts my nation. Kill your sister.
“Is it Skrymir?” Jewelwolf said. “Clifflion, have you come? The Archmage? Who will care for me?”
“It is I,” said Steelfox.
“You . . . get away from me, traitor . . . always a coward . . .”
“That is what our grandmother told our father, the day he slew his half-brother.”
“She thought it was a crime . . . but Father had strength.”
“And so do I. The strength to renounce your ways—and his. I am strong enough to find my own path. I give you your life, Jewelwolf. But you must leave these lands, which will become my home.”
“You . . . you’d become one with these muck-dwellers?”
“Perhaps.”
“Run!” came a new voice. “Run!”
The sisters turned to see the distant figure of Malin Jorgensdatter, sprinting across the rugged face of the island, pointing at something over their heads.
“How charming.”
At the sound of the second voice both nomad princesses looked up.
Skrymir loomed over them. Black clouds swirled above him, covering the sky.
“I think,” Skrymir said, “you’ve outlived your usefulness, Jewelwolf. My army is destroying the Kantenings as we speak, so my strength will be well-demonstrated among your people. Who can resist killing two birds with one foot?” Boulder-sized toes reared above them.
“They want to awaken, Innocence!” Joy said as she gripped the blazing Chain. “The dragons of Svardmark and Spydbanen. I am trying to stop them, but the power is so hard to control.”
“I’m here,” Innocence said. “I have no power, but I won’t leave you.”
Snow Pine saw the troll-jarl preparing to crush Steelfox and Jewelwolf. She acted without hesitation, rushing forward with Schismglass. Flint ran beside her.
Together they slashed at the heel of Skrymir. Snow Pine felt a certain exhilaration as her blade, so glasslike and fragile-looking, sliced through rock.
The troll bellowed and stumbled backward. Steelfox lifted Jewelwolf and tried to escape. Skrymir grinned down at Snow Pine and Flint. “Little fools! Your soul-stealing weapons may hurt me, but they cannot finish me! For my soul is linked to the dragon Moonspear, and you cannot take it.”
“Well, take this!” yelled Inga Peersdatter.
She began kicking at Skrymir’s feet, using moves taught her by Joy and Snow Pine and Walking Stick.
“Little changeling,” Skrymir rumbled. “You fled before we could properly welcome you into the family of trolls.”
“Oh, I know we’re family,” Inga said, commencing a spinning kick, “Father!”
A voice wracked with pain whispered into Snow Pine’s ear. Listen. Bandit. Let an old fool advise you.
“Huginn?” she whispered.
“Ah!” Skrymir told Inga, as cracks developed on his heel. “You have discovered my and Morksol’s little arrangement. You, whom I sculpted from stone, took on human aspect, and there is much I would learn from you now. The day is coming when I will fear nothing, not even the sun. I am heartless. Soon I will be free of any weakness.”
Skrymir raised his hand. Bursting from the waters came his gigantic axe, spraying droplets everywhere as it flew to his hand. “Now. Serve me or be broken.”
“I’m already broken, Father. I have the strength of someone’s who’s broken and fights on. You may have shaped me at the beginning, but I’m my own person now.”
“Well spoken, Inga!” Flint said, swinging Crypttongue.
“Yes,” Skrymir said. “Lovely. Disarming even.” He swung, but this time Inga was ready for him and leapt aside. The isle’s rocky surface shook and shattered.
“Understand!” Malin said, rushing up to them.
“Malin!” Inga said. “Be careful!”
“Careful, yes!” Malin said. “But you must understand! How to beat him!”
Snow Pine wanted to listen but couldn’t avoid the voice of Huginn.
Aye, it is I. Who piled up lies and foolishness until I was crushed beneath them. I, who told stories of brave heroes, was myself terrified of death. Out of fear I clutched the hem of anyone powerful. By turns I told myself I was patriotic, or godl
y, or astute, or forward-looking, but I was simply a coward. Now I am dead as I always would be, without deeds to my name. . . .
Snow Pine slashed and leapt out of the way of Skrymir’s clomping foot. “Listen, I understand you have things to say, but I am rather busy—”
“Eh?” said Flint. “I didn’t say anything!”
“Sorry,” Snow Pine said. “Someone else—”
“Oh! Yes, I understand. There’s a bit of a racket in my blade as well—”
In her mind, Huginn moaned, You must listen. Thanks to Jewelwolf these swords have sipped the energies of the arkendrakes. If both are shattered, by striking the Axe of Sternmark, the released energies should destroy the axe, and wound Skrymir as well.
“Flint! We must hit the axe at the same time!”
“That strikes me as quite dangerous!”
“This dance strikes me as dangerous too!”
“All right! Will you marry me?”
“Aiya! Idiot! Romantic fool! Business first! Then we talk!”
“Very well!”
They rushed beneath Skrymir’s feet, and when next Skrymir swung the axe, they simultaneously struck.
Light filled Snow Pine’s brain.
Bone sensed more than saw the explosion of magic. The three enchanted weapons shattered, fragments of metal flying in every direction. Snow Pine and Flint collapsed, and Skrymir clutched his charred hand. Inga staggered also, for she’d shielded Malin with her body. But the changeling lost no time in pressing the attack against her father.
Bone, for his part, felt weirdly invigorated by the conflagration. He staggered to his feet, dazed, and helped Steelfox drag Jewelwolf farther away. They found a set of boulders that offered a little shelter. Karvak soldiers were approaching, their discipline momentarily shredded by wonder at these strange sights. Bone was relieved to see motion from Snow Pine and Flint.
The falcon Qurca circled near him.
At first he thought he imagined the voice. Bone! There you are! The tone was unmistakable.
“Northwing?”
“Qurca?” Steelfox said.
Good, you can both hear me. I’m using the peregrine as a vessel. Don’t worry, Princess, it won’t hurt him. I was always able to ride within his mind, but I thought it rude. My spirit tracked the two swords to this place. Just in time, too. Good riddance. Listen! Haytham, Katta, and Gaunt are apprised of the situation.
“Tell Gaunt hello!” Bone said, grinning despite everything.
She says shut up and focus, man.
“Tell her I love her too.”
Katta suggests Skrymir is weakened and might accept a new heart. Haytham says look for an object of significance. It needn’t be magical. It might change his character for the better, whatever it is. Gaunt asks if you still have the Chart of Tomorrows.
Bone said, “That is lost.”
Steelfox said, “What about that strange artifact over there?”
He followed her gaze to his pallet. With all the disturbances, the Antilektron Mechanism had rolled back into view. Bone, feeling a tingling within him, left Steelfox and hobbled toward it.
“You know, don’t you?”
He looked up, startled to see Malin beside him. “That is it,” she said, “how to beat him. I’ve learned to study faces. I watched him up close until I knew where he was looking. He’s afraid of something about this object.”
“When he stomped my pack . . . he was hoping to crush it too. It’s a relic of a people who got by without magic.”
“Maybe that’s why he fears it. The trolls are undone by the ordinary. Sunlight. Bells. Love.”
“And rationality too?” Bone mused. “Help an old man and bring it to the fight, would you?”
Knowing he was damaging a still-fragile body, but buoyed up by the energies unleashed by the blades, Bone staggered toward Skrymir. Qurca landed on his shoulder. Gaunt says she thinks you’re on the right track, came the voice of Northwing. But she thinks Flint should be the one to get the heart into Skrymir’s body.
“Yes, I’m feeble! I know!”
It’s not that. Flint is the rationalist of your group. The one who dismisses gods and avoids magic. Gaunt says he’s the champion you want right now.
Malin caught up to him, helped him reach Flint and Snow Pine. They had gotten to their feet, bodies slashed by fragments of the exploding swords but luckily quite alive.
“Bone, what—” Snow Pine said.
“I need help, Flint,” Bone said.
“What?” said Flint.
“Behold Skrymir’s new heart,” Bone said. “A relic of a more scientific age. Gaunt suggests you are the one to place it in his chest. You are the natural philosopher. Perhaps someone should speak a few words.”
“What?” Flint said again, then: “I’m not a lawspeaker or loresinger. All right, I studied for a time, but was cast out—”
“To business, fiancé,” Snow Pine said.
“What?” Bone said. “Congratulations.”
“Shut up, Bone,” Snow Pine said. “I will bless it if you won’t, Flint. ‘The Way that can be spoken is not the true and eternal Way. The name that can be named is not the imperishable name. Nameless is the origin of Heaven and Earth, but with names we bring forth the ten thousand things.’ Now be a good heart.”
Flint said, “In the name of the Circulation, the Musculature, and the Skeleton, may all things fit together. I witness that the human world is rational, even if the human heart is not.” He took the Antilektron Mechanism. “Snow Pine, Bone, Malin, I’ll need a distraction! Inga! Can you boost me?”
“Busy!” Inga yelled from where she fought with the wounded Skrymir. “Oh, all right—”
“Well,” Bone said to the Mechanism, “whoever made you, I hope they don’t mind how you’re going to be used. Skrymir! Over here!”
He lacked the strength to do anything but throw rocks. But he still had good aim. Malin and Snow Pine joined him.
Inga rolled to Flint’s side. “Get on! If you think you can do something, I’ll get you up there!”
Inga scrambled up her troll-father. Bone remembered Gaunt describing how Innocence would climb her as a little boy, and something in him ached. “Watch out!” he yelled.
Skrymir grabbed Inga and Flint with the same grasp, but Flint was not entirely trapped and wiggled free. He crawled along the arm. The burned hand reached for him, but a peregrine falcon flew at stony eyes.
“I will crush you all! I feel nothing for . . . what is that sound? Is it fiddling?”
“Gaunt,” Bone whispered. Just as Northwing’s voice had emanated from Qurca, now the shaman was somehow conveying Persimmon Gaunt’s music. It held all the long anguish of the winter and the war. Even Skrymir paused when hearing it.
Inga said, “It doesn’t have to be this way. We don’t have to hate each other. There’s plenty of other stuff to smash in the world.”
No sun touched Skrymir. But whatever the music and the conflict had awakened in him all but petrified him. Liron Flint held tight, reached the gap in Skrymir’s chest, and shoved the Mechanism inside. As though some notmagic, some anti-spell had been completed at last, the stone expanded to seal the device tight.
Flint, his energy spent, toppled. Snow Pine caught him, or rather let herself be sprawled by his fall.
Bone and Malin hesitated in their stone-throwing.
“I . . . see,” Skrymir said. “Daughter . . . I see. It’s as though a veil is lifted. I see an interplay of forces giving rise to all things. The fundamental question of my consciousness is not so different from your own, after all.”
“Oh, really?”
“All of us arise from something larger. All of us have changeable natures, until at last we meet that great change which is death. My quest to forge meaning by destroying others . . . pathetic. Unworthy of my majesty.”
He set Inga down. “Now, perhaps, I will find meaning in creation. I will be constructive, as you were, Inga, and maybe that will let me keep my autonomy, as you hav
e yours.”
“But I don’t build things,” Inga said. “I like to smash them.”
“Indeed. But have you not built friendships? Farewell, daughter, and assorted fools.”
Skrymir strode toward the waters.
“Wait!” Inga called out, and Skrymir paused. “Your army! You have to call it off!”
“They will no longer listen to me, changeling,” rumbled Skrymir, “for I have changed. No longer can I say, ‘To myself be enough.’ Now I know I have a real self—as real, or as hollow, as anything else—to which I must be true. You must cope with trolldom as best you can. One way or another, our age changes.”
So saying, Skrymir surged into the sea.
“One down,” sighed Bone. “Ten thousand to go.”
Screams descended from the Svardmark promontory.
“Let’s go,” Flint said, supported by Snow Pine. “It’s time we found Snow Pine’s daughter. And your son.”
Bone nodded.
“Here we are,” said Haytham. He’d helped Katta carry Northwing to another frozen waterfall. Gaunt walked ahead, fiddling.
They confronted a wall of icicles, glistening like bright pillars, ingots, fangs.
Gaunt played on.
“This seems a somewhat futile gesture,” Haytham said. “This is not truly a waterfall. More of a water-fell.”
Katta said, “It is the middle of summer. The sun is bright. The enchanted winter is broken.”
Gaunt paused in her playing. They heard a single droplet fall with a plink.
“It’s a waterfall,” she said. “Aren’t you? And things are changing for your land. Awaken.”
She played.
The trolls were ripping Walking Stick’s army apart. His beautiful instrument, forged out of frightened refugees and transformed into a force to topple even Karvaks . . . it was now like a collection of porcelain sculptures under falling rocks.
Walking Stick leapt from one troll to another, his focused chi knocking heads from bodies. But many of the trolls had multiple heads. Others were not discomfited at lacking any. He could escape, but he would not abandon his people.
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